Aspirin and Resistance
by Verboten Byacolate
Summary: How sweet is the bitter man's wine?
1. The Beginning

_(Oh please, oh love, just one more kiss. I'll be gone before the morning.)_

* * *

He likes to think he has a place beside the one he loves. The belief leaves an ache in his heart when he sobers and finds it not so-- an ache that spreads from his heart and clenches his stomach, dries his throat. So he ignores the dull pain and takes to another night, finding solace in a Frenchman's bed and his sweet, sweet wine.

But when he wakes, his throat is still dry. Untangling sheets and fumbling with the tabletop bottle, he tilts.

He was wrong. So wrong. The wine is terribly bitter.

Clouded green irises struggle to sharpen, taking in the mess that he has made. That _they _have made.

He doesn't feel guilt. France sleeps soundly, shamelessly bare, for he knows well that he is only standing in for something England does not have. England shuffles into his trousers and tries to find his shirt (_have I discarded the damn thing in the hall again? No, here it is over the lamp. Must remember that sex with France is a potential fire hazard_). He slips on his sweater vest (found in a wrinkled heap at the end of the bed) and stuffs his tie into his pocket, too clumsy to even attempt looking decent.

A hand catches his wrist as he turns to leave. France's lazy grin meets him back around.

"_Mon cher_," he slackens his grip to slide down and takes England's hand, "you must know that anymore it is painful to look at you. You are so much fun when you need to be consoled, but my conscience nags at me." France languidly shuts his eyes. "Find the place where you belong."

"Go back to sleep, " Arthur mumbles, more than irritated. He has a nasty hangover and wants nothing but his own bed. He doesn't need _France_ telling him what he already knows.

He slowly makes his way to the front door, intent on getting home as quickly as possible, and is of course deterred at the front door. A young woman with bronze skin balances a basket of fish on her hip as she steps into France's house, not very surprised to see him there. She smiles after a moment, and _then _England feels guilt.

"Good morning," she greets softly, noting his state, and England feels terrible. He shouldn't; France has many lovers, and Seychelles has never before seemed to mind. But England knows. He knows how it is to have a love unspoken, to watch that love become close (intimate, even) with so many others. He knows the burning desire to want that love all to himself. With respect he notes that Seychelles is much better at hiding it.

He nods at her greeting and lowers his gaze, shuffling to the door.

"The sun is bright today, Monsieur Kirkland. Won't you stay?" She is correct. The sunshine burns. But he cannot stay.

"No. Ah, no thank you, I must go."

The door closes behind him, and he is alone once more.

The streets are crowded with people, bustling with activity, but the noise is torture upon England's ears and eyes. He wants to be home, this is killing him, he can't even _see _straight. Frustration and irritation grips him. He wants a drink. But he knows that if he stops, it will just take longer to reach his cozy, beckoning bed. Hell, even the floor of his home sounds good now. He just wants to be where he belongs.

"Hah," he scoffs at himself, at his thoughts. He only truly belongs at home. Not with a fling to take his pain away for a night. Not with a little, not so little, much-larger-than-he colony that he raised. Not with the strong nation the colony has become; the one he has come to love. _Again_. No, home was the only place for him.

He'd be a liar if he said that it was disappointing to be so... isolated.

Oh _bugger_. He needed a _drink_.

"Arthur?"

Of course. Of course that little _twat _had to be here, now, in the very instance that Arthur so fervently wished to be alone. Curled up. In bed. Sweet bed...

Through the crowd of French speakers they weaved, Alfred holding tight to a leading (desperate-attempt-to-escaping) Arthur's shoulder. He talked. England didn't follow quite well. Something about croissants, crepes and poodles. He didn't really care, though. The most important matters at hand were his screaming headache and the blasted _idiot _that was _touching _his _shoulder_ and-

"Say, Arthur, are you all right?"

"Fine, fine," the Englishman muttered, batting his hand away and chastising himself at the disappointment that followed. "Whatever your schedule dictates, get on with it. My head is about to split in two, and I've got a bed at home that's calling my name, so.."

"A headache? You hung over or something?" Following closely, America began to dig in his pockets.

"That would be the case," Arthur answered tersely, pivoting around a rather large woman clad in eye-watering electric blue. Alfred stumbled around her and produced two pills from his pocket. "You wanna stop and get something to wash this down?"

Glorious aspirin. Arthur snatched the pills and swallowed them dry. "Lord," he said, finally slowing his pace. "I hope you've got more of those."

Alfred grinned. "'Course I do. I have to deal with you too often to not have any around. All of that migrane-inducing nagging you're so keen on sending my way..."

England burned red. "W-well, sorry for caring!"

The silence that followed was awkward (_oh Alfred, you stupid git, just go_) but soon the aspirin proved affective and England wasn't in so much pain. Awkward silences were so much easier to endure when a headache wasn't threatening to rip your skull apart. He glanced sideways at America. Sideways and up because he was so... agh, never _mind_.

"Hey," Alfred said suddenly, jolting England out of his embarrassing train of thought, "y'know, I can totally wait till tomorrow to eat France's food." No. "If you want..." No, please no. "I can stay with you until you feel better." I can't _resist _you, you idiot. "Knowing you, you'll try to drink away the hangover pain, and that's just dumb."

"All right, fine!" Arthur groused, ears burning. "You needn't be so rude!"

Alfred smiled. "Just callin' 'em as I see 'em, pops."

"Ugh. Don't _call _me that."

And Alfred laughed.

* * *

tbc.


	2. The Middle

Edit: You guys were great, catching my mistake. By "fowl" I definitely meant "foul," not "delicious bird to eat." Thank you.

* * *

Upon entering England's abode, Alfred immediately insisted on making coffee. Automatically, Arthur refused, saying that he would rather impale himself than drink that swill, and so began their second spat of the day.

"If it's goodwill you want points for, then make some tea," England groused, beginning his ascent up the staircase. He paused on the second step. "No, never mind, I'll do it."

"What? Why? I can totally handle it."

"Really?"

America grinned at the skeptical tone. "Don't underestimate me. Quite a few of my people love tea, and even McDonald's brews tea. Besides, I hang out with you, don't I? Means I've learned from the best."

England's grip tightened on the banister and he felt his cheeks heat up. "... Oh, all right. If you absolutely insist."

And then his thoughts drew more heat to his face and he had to sit down and cradle his head in his hands and _Alfred is in my kitchen making me tea, he brought me home and he's making me tea, oh God above and the Queen, Alfred's making **tea**_, and he just had to stand and walk over to the kitchen to see.

Leaning against the door frame, Arthur had to duck his head to hide his flushed face. America stood at _England_'s kitchen counter, setting _England_'s tea kettle on _England_'s stove and began to rifle through _England_'s cupboards for _England_'s teabags. Hangover-induced migraine or no, Arthur could now die a happy man.

He cleared his throat. "In the pantry." America glanced over. "Or have you forgotten everything since you were a boy?"

"You should be in bed moaning about your headache, not standing there with a potential lecture," Alfred said, making a beeline for the pantry. "Or maybe you just couldn't resist hanging around someone as awesome as me while you have free access in your own house?"

"No such thing," England snorted. "I only thought that perhaps you were bluffing when you said you could make tea. But now I see that you are doing fine, so I'll go." _Though I'd really rather stay and watch._ It was amazing how attractive someone could be while making tea. America grinned wickedly at him, as if reading his thoughts, and England turned abruptly up the stairs and to his room. A shower sounded fantastic, but by George he had been awaiting that bed for _ages_.

* * *

With the combined efforts of menial sleep the previous night and a pulsing headache, England fell into a deep and restful slumber. He dreamed of unicorns in a political debate with miniature ponies. He dreamed of Russia moving his house to Mars. He dreamed of America bursting into the unicorn's conference room and breaking up the heated dispute with scones and crumpets and ale. He dreamed of Alfred setting a teacup on his bedside table and touching England, pushing his bangs off of his forehead, smoothing his hair. He dreamed of the land of the free falling asleep at his bedside with his head pillowed by his arms.

And then he woke up.

Automatically, England's hand stretched to his right where America had been in his dream. He patted around for a bit and then opened his eyes, half surprised to find that there was no one there.

England scratched the back of his neck sheepishly for hoping. _The idiot's probably sleeping on my couch_. It was a probable occurrence-- America often did.

However, he wasn't. And he wasn't in the kitchen. Nor was he in one of the guestrooms or the cellar or the bathroom.

Alfred simply wasn't there.

England raked a hand through his hair, feeling foolish for the disappointment lumping in his throat. America had no obligation to stay with him, and as a nation of course he was busy, so it was silly for England to feel so... so...

"Well," he coughed, "I'd better get a start on the day."

Tidying his room, he found a cup of cold tea on the bedside table.

The pillow lying on the floor smelled of Alfred.

* * *

France was supposed to have arrived for their meeting thirteen minutes ago. "Supposed to" entailed the two factors: 'had planned to with England' and 'had _not_.' Arthur, already in a foul mood, sipped at his tea angrily. (Heated up from the cold kettle that Alfred had left on the stove. Stupid boy, never cleaned his own messes. Would have been a waste of tea to throw it out.)

The cup was almost empty when an obnoxiously-dressed Frenchman burst through his office doors, a single red rose between his teeth. He smiled and presented the rose to England with flourish. A little tag tied to a bow hung from the stem. "Bonjour, my grumpy one. This beautiful rose arrived for you this morning."

"Bugger off, Francis. I'm not here to play games."

"Non, neither am I." France quirked an eyebrow. "You, my pet, have a secret admirer. I intercepted this at the doorway from a messenger."

"Rubbish," Arthur replied. "Give it here."

England took the rose delicately between his fingers and took a look at the tag. Francis made himself comfortable in the chair across from England's desk. "I cannot believe you would have another lover," Francis said with a mock pout. "I thought I was your only. I would never expect _you _to carry on with other people. While it is expected of me because I am just terribly charming and attractive, it takes a special type to fall in love with _you_." But England was not listening.

He stared at the card, his jaw dropping in a terribly undignified manner.

_I love you more._


	3. The End

At approximately half past noon, Arthur managed to convince Francis to shove off or be invited to lunch (which he had politely declined, making a break for the open window). One hour after France's departure, Arthur Kirkland sat on his lounge chair, a cup of tea raised to his lips as he overturned the stem of the rose in his opposite hand. The handwriting was obviously Alfred's (they were bubble letters penned in red and blue, for Heaven's sake; it probably came to the America as a shock that there was no white pen), and the single rose was just too corny that Arthur had to blush in embarrassment for the poor boy every time his thumb brushed a petal.

"I love you" was understandable. Far-fetched and too good to be true, but he could comprehend it. The "more" bit was what had him flummoxed. What did the blasted twat _mean_, "more"?

"There's no way your daft little love could surpass mine, you wanker," he muttered into his fine china, downing the rest of the liquid and setting the cup on the saucer in his lap.

More. Hah. He'd love to test _that _theory.

England settled his cheek upon his free fist, twirling the flower around between his thumb and forefinger. The grandfather clock tick-tocked England into another seven minutes, and before he could change his mind, the Englishman stood.

"Bollocks you love me more," he mumbled as he took the land-line in his hands, cradling the phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he rang the florist. "My most will piss on your bloody _more_."

* * *

It was perfect. More than perfect. It was spectacular. Arthur had America down to a science. He knew the time it would take for the flowers to arrive, how long a flabbergasted America would take to re-hinge his jaw and hop on the nearest flight. He knew how long it would take for the idiot to arrive, to run over to his house, and to barge in _technically _uninvited. He knew how long it would take for them to exchange pleasant banter before some sort of lovey-dovey, blushing confession was made (one of the two would have to make it, and he could take the first shot if he needed to), and one thing would lead to another, and...

Well. Yes, that.

England made sure he was sitting at his kitchen table five minutes prior to America's arrival, legs crossed, sipping tea languidly with one hand, a newspaper in the other. The tea calmed his nerves just enough to keep his hands from trembling. However, his eyes had swept over the same headline twelve times three minutes before Alfred threw open the front door, and Arthur hadn't the foggiest what the article below it was about.

Two minutes to go, and Arthur locked his eyes on the headline once more. Blimey, this paper was thirteen weeks old! What the hell was it doing out of the trash bin?

One minute passed slowly, and with every sudden jerk of the second hand, Arthur felt his heart leap into his throat.

... Thirty seconds later than expected, but that was nothing, idiot might have stopped for a burger on the way.

Four minutes late. Well, those things take time to make, England supposed.

Ten minutes late. When had the teacup gone dry?

Seventeen minutes... well, the flight may have been delayed...

Arthur Kirkland waited for three hours. And then... that was it. It was too tiring to stay up anymore, reading old news without registering a word, the sound of the clock imprinting slight holes in his spirit.

America simply wasn't coming.

* * *

His old militaristic sensitivity had numbed, he realized in the back of his mind as he was awoken by a great beast pouncing on him in the middle of the night. It was the size of a very small giant and smelled delightfully of America. (Delightful... well, he was half-asleep; his judgment wasn't proper.)

"Arthur, are you awake?" it whispered, and _oh_, he wouldn't mind hearing that voice whisper to him _every _night.

"Not anymore," he muttered in reply, squinting up at the beast. Even if his eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark of the room, he probably would have seen that enormous grin. America's hands held him up on both side's of England's head, and his legs straddled Arthur's hips. It wasn't a terribly unpleasant thing to wake up to, even in the wee hours of the morning.

"I got your flowers," America said. It was a wonder his lips could even move through that smile. England couldn't tear his eyes away.

"I can see that." Or rather, he could smell it. Sniffing inconspicuously, he wondered if Alfred had stuffed the bouquet down his jacket; he positively reeked of rose petals. "You're late."

"Huh?" A confused look replaced America's smile, but only for a second. "Ah... I guess it is pretty late, huh?" He laughed. "Sorry about that. Turns out I had to talk stuff out with France about diplomatic whatnot in the early afternoon earlier tod-- um, yesterday, and by the time I got home, it was dinner time. When I got to my house, I saw the flowers." His happy smile took a tender turn and England just didn't know what to do with all of this new-found hope in his heart. Put it away for future use? Pickle it? Turn it into jam? What delicious jam it would be. Mm, and perhaps it would taste like Alfred... whatever Alfred tasted like. Arthur's brows furrowed as he watched America's lips move. His sleepy mind tried to listen to the words, but those lips in the moonlight... he realized that he had never touched them before. That was bothersome.

And suddenly, a hand was waving about in his face.

"Hey, Arthur, are you listening to me?"

"No," England replied, snatching America's hand out of the air and leaning up, dusting his lips over America's. The chatty nation went silent and he stared, fascinated. Arthur's brain went to mush and he fell back, rolling onto his side with what little space he had between America's arms. "W-we'll continue this conversation in the morning once I've properly brushed my teeth," England mumbled into his pillow. America laughed again (what an irritatingly beautiful sound) and fell behind England's back, sitting and shucking his jacket before looping an arm around England's waist and holding him close.

"Oh yeah. We're definitely continuing this tomorrow."

It felt sinfully good in those arms. _  
_

_I think I've found the place where I belong, Francis. And that hope jam is definitely going on my morning toast._

* * *

Fin

* * *

I... I've actually finished... a multi-chap... I'm fairly certain that this is a first. (Well, that's why I limited myself in the beginning to three chapters.) Thanks a million to those of you who stuck beside me during these three chapters. It's been an absolute pleasure writing US/UK, and yet I still wonder if I could ever pull it off in the future. I apologize for any dissatisfaction for the ending. "What is this jam business?" you might be wondering. Well, I'm a sleepy, sleepy girl, I answer. And now, I must bid this small fic (that I am terribly proud of, regardless of poor quality) farewell.  
Flummoxed is such a great word, don't you agree?

* * *


End file.
